Dustings of Flour and Snow

Almost nothing compares to the aroma of baking on a cold day.

Bread’s sweet aroma lifts through the air and surrounds me.

Crust will be perfectly golden and crispy.

Dustings of flour cover the counters because I haven’t yet cleaned.

Everyone knows, when the snow falls, I’ll be found baking.

Focaccia and rolls, savory and sweet.

Great bread takes its time to rise, but with patience, I’ll bake the greatest prize.

How could anything that takes all these hours to proof end up disappointing?

I am under the impression that bread cures all and brings us all closer.

Just water, yeast, salt and a little sugar.

Kneading in rhythm with the snow fall outside.

Letting myself lose count of the folds, feeling the satisfaction of push and pull.

My eyes wander to the dampened world beyond my window.

Never before did I look forward to snow.

Only now, with dough drying beneath my nails, I think.

Perhaps I can embrace the quiet of the soft snowstorm.

Quiet isn’t quite as disconcerting when I’m baking bread.

Rarely have I found such peace in the cold days of winter.

Snow has piled up to the windows now.

Tracks from the neighborhood kids faded quickly when they tired and went inside.

Under fresh snow morning footprints have disappeared.

Veiling the life beneath our feet, mother nature pulls up downy covers.

Winter has come to remind us to slow down and breathe.

Xanthous leaves from autumn have been tucked under snow, fall forgotten.

Yeast has bubbled, and its time for me to pull my bread from the cozy heat of my oven.

Zenith of the wintry days, that first bite of steaming soft bread.